


After I Have Traveled So Far

by Chash



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Arrow AU, F/M, Trauma, Vigilantism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-21 06:53:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6042223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chash/pseuds/Chash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after she was lost at sea, Clarke Griffin reappears, and her mother decides she needs a bodyguard. Bellamy figures it'll be an easy job, and he's grateful, honestly. Clarke could use someone on her side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After I Have Traveled So Far

**Author's Note:**

> [dangerous--waters](http://dangerous--waters.tumblr.com) asked for an Arrow AU for her prize in my follower giveaway, so here we go! I definitely watched at least the first and second season of Arrow, I think? Clearly I remember this really well, so this is mostly inspired by my hazy memories, and then I rewatched the pilot, and also asked Brittany some questions, and then winged it, as is my custom.
> 
> General warnings for mentions of violence and trauma, although I don't go into detail.

Bellamy doesn't get summoned to the Griffin house often, and every time he is, he's sure he's done something horribly wrong. Even when it's just O asking him to come see her, he still can't help feeling as if he's being called into the principal's office, on the largest scale ever. It was better when Jake and Clarke were around, because they'd at least been people he felt like he could talk to. O does all right with Abby, but she always makes Bellamy feel like there's something on his face.

It gets worse when he sees Octavia is waiting for him on the steps.

"Jesus, how bad is it?" he asks.

"Clarke's alive," says O. "Some Hawaiian police boat found her on an island in the middle of nowhere, she somehow got them to keep it quiet. She's back."

Bellamy stops. It doesn't really explain anything, but--it's fucking unbelievable.

Not that his being here at all isn't pretty unbelievable. He didn't ever expect to be involved with the Griffin family. They're royalty in Ark City, the elite of the elite, and Bellamy's family was nothing.

But then he was nineteen, just starting his first tour of duty in Iraq, and his mother died. Octavia bounced around foster care for a year while he tried not to pull his hair out, wishing he could go back to her, take care of her. By the time he was up for leave, the Griffins were fostering her, and he realized, with a lurch, that even if he left the military, he wouldn't be able to look after her as well as they could. And they're--considerate. Of course, taking Octavia in in the first place had been mostly for publicity, he's pretty sure, and it would have been terrible for their image if they'd welcomed the poor orphan girl with open arms, but turned their backs on her equally orphaned brother, a _soldier_ , off defending freedom or whatever bullshit they were calling the war this week. So of course they'd invited him to stay when he was in the country, had him over for holidays, let him see his sister as much as he wanted.

He's not a part of the family, not even close. He's more than an acquaintance, but he wouldn't have thought he made the short list of people who got a call about Clarke's homecoming.

"She's alive?" he repeats, dumbly.

"She's alive. And Abby wants to keep her that way." She stands, brushes her hands on her jeans. "That's why she called you."

His surprise is genuine. "Wow. I'm her first call for that?"

O shrugs as she leads him into the house. "How happy do you think Clarke is going to be about having a bodyguard?"

Bellamy hasn't seen Clarke Griffin in three years. No one has. She disappeared a few weeks after she finished college, _lost at sea_ , like something out of an old adventure novel. He never quite got around to believing that she was dead, not when he thought about it. There was a funeral, and he went, but--it just didn't seem like how Clarke could end. Not that he was an expert or anything, but he liked her, and she liked him. When he had to go to fancy parties at the house, he'd hang out with Clarke and O, and it was fun.

The Clarke he knew would have bristled at personal security, even before Jake died and she stopped listening to anyone. But it's been three years of god knows what; maybe she'll feel better, having someone to look out for her.

It's still hard to imagine.

"Yeah, okay," he grants. "How's she doing?"

"Hard to tell."

"Where was she?"

O shakes her head. "They found her on an island, like I said, but she hasn't told me any details. Maybe she told Abby, I don't know. She's--Clarke. More like old Clarke than new Clarke, I guess, but--maybe another new Clarke."

He knows exactly what she means, but he still has to smile at the phrasing. "Abby must be--" He pauses. "Fuck, I can't even imagine." It was less than a year between Jake dying and Clarke disappearing, and half the reason Octavia is still living at the Griffin house while she's in college is that she worries about Abby being all alone in a giant, empty mansion, mourning her husband, not knowing if her daughter was alive or dead. Even after Abby started dating Marcus Kane and seemed to even out, she still worried.

It might be genetic.

"It's been so fucking weird," says O. "I told her to call you. She couldn't stop following Clarke around, I thought--"

"Yeah," he says. "Might as well pay someone with qualifications to do it."

Clarke looks healthy; that's the first thing he notices. He's not sure what he was expecting; there's no way she could have survived three years on an island without food, but she's basically clean and hasn't lost as much weight as he'd expect. She and Abby stop talking as soon as he and Octavia come in, and Clarke raises her eyebrows at him.

"That's your plan?" she asks Abby.

"My plan," says O, easy. "He and his army buddy started a personal security firm, remember?"

"Oh, yeah. That's still going?"

"It's almost like I'm a competent businessman," he says, and Clarke flashes him a small smile.

She does seem more like old Clarke than new Clarke, but--Bellamy's a veteran, and he's seen eyes like hers before. She didn't look like this the last time he saw her.

"Things really have changed," she says, looking at him through her eyelashes, and he returns her smile.

"It's just for a little while, Clarke," says Abby. "Just until--"

"I figured Bell could use the money," Octavia interjects, easy. 

"I thought he was a good businessman," Clarke teases.

"From what I know about businessmen, the good ones never turn down money," he says.

Abby's mouth is a hard line, and he feels a little bad, but--he doubts all of them being grim and serious and concerned would make Clarke feel better, or more inclined to let him follow her around. "It's a good idea," she tells her daughter. "To have someone to looking out for you."

He sees Clarke's jaw work, like she's going to argue, but she must think better of it, because all she says is, "Well, if he needs the money."

He calls Miller while Abby and Clarke are talking logistics.

"I've got a job."

"For you or for us?"

"Just me." He lets out a breath. "Clarke is back."

Miller swears softly. "Seriously? What--"

"I don't know. I'm waiting to talk to her in private. I'm not touching her and Abby's reunion with a ten-foot pole."

"Yeah, I don't blame you. Need anything from me? Backup? Flask?"

Bellamy snorts. "It's fine. I like Clarke. I'll hang out for a couple weeks, until Abby calms down, we'll make some good money and get great publicity. You should be kissing my ass."

"Are you into that now? Shit, Blake, I've been praying every night."

"You know I hate breaking your heart, Miller. Someday, man. Someday."

"Yeah, right. I'll take you off the schedule for the next month, just in case."

"Thanks. If I need anything else, I'll call. And keep it quiet, obviously. It's not out yet."

"I wasn't born yesterday," says Miller. And then, after a slight pause. "Good luck."

When he gets back to the living room, it's just Clarke, sitting on the sofa, staring at her hands like she doesn't quite recognize them. It makes a lump rise in his throat; he's glad she's alive, but he didn't want this for her. He doesn't want it for anyone.

He sits down next to her and turns on the TV, finds FXX playing _Simpsons_ reruns. They watch in silence for a few minutes, and then Clarke says, "You're seriously going to babysit me?"

"Your mom said I could order something on Pay-Per-View and eat whatever I want out of the fridge."

Clarke snorts, soft, and Bellamy hides his own smile. "That sounds like a pretty sweet gig."

He kicks his feet up on the coffee table. "Right? Babysitting is the fucking _best_."

*

There's a day before Clarke's return hits the news, by some fucking miracle. Bellamy hangs out at the mansion with her, talking with her and Abby about what they need from a security detail--which they have very different opinions on, but Clarke seems willing to defer to her mother, at least in the short term--and what his duties will be. 

He's not going to have much of a social life for a few weeks. Not that he's had much of one lately anyway. And, honestly, if Clarke goes back to the party-girl thing she had going before she left, he'll be spending more time in clubs than he has in years.

But he'll be working.

Wells Jaha and Raven Reyes come by that night. He's met Wells before, at family parties, but Raven he only knows from tabloid pictures of Clarke before she left, the two of them grinning, arms around each other. She looks like a supermodel, but he's pretty sure she's still working at Griffin Industries, some kind of mechanic or engineer or something.

She throws herself into Clarke's arms immediately, and Clarke smiles, but doesn't laugh, and hugs her back.

"What would you have done if she was attacking me?" she asks him.

He considers, and then shrugs. "Let you die. Get fired." 

She doesn't laugh at that either, but she snorts softly. "Solid plan." She squeezes Raven one more time and then pulls back. "Hi. Good to see you."

" _Good to see you_?" Raven asks, incredulous. "Three fucking years, and that's--"

"Raven," says Wells, warning, and pulls Clarke into an embrace of his own. "Hi."

She sniffles, just a little. "Hi."

"Who's the guy?" Raven asks, jerking her head at him.

"Octavia's brother. My new bodyguard."

"Bodyguard? You've been back for a day."

Clarke's smile is brittle. "You know me. Making friends everywhere I go."

Raven's eyes flash. "Seriously, what the _fuck_ , Clarke? Where were you? What--"

"Raven," Wells says again.

"I know my name," Raven snaps.

"Sorry," Clarke says, voice so soft Bellamy almost can't hear her. "I'm just--I'm not really ready to talk about it yet."

"Have you figured out what you're going to tell the press?" Wells asks.

Her mouth quirks. "My mother has a speech all ready. You know how she is, she's never met a situation she can't turn into a publicity stunt."

"That's not fair," Raven says. "There's no way this _wasn't_ gonna be a media shitshow. At least Abby's got a plan and a statement worked out. If you tell a hundred reporters you're not ready to talk about it yet--"

"I know," says Clarke. "I know." She scrubs her hand over her face. "I'm grateful, I am, I just--"

Wells puts his arm around her. "Hey, we're here, okay? Whenever you're ready. Whatever you need. We've got this. Right?" he asks Raven.

"Of course," she says, going to Clarke's other side. "Name it. We're here."

"I know," says Clarke, closing her eyes. "I know. Thanks."

Raven catches Bellamy on her way out. "You've got her too?" she asks, sizing him up. "You knew her?"

"I knew her," he says. "We weren't best buddies or anything, but--I've got her, yeah."

"Not just for your job."

It's a sticky question, because Bellamy does like Clarke, at least somewhat, but it's not like it's particularly _good_ , if his motivation is personal rather than professional. He keeps his clients safe and alive; it doesn't matter if they're his friends. And it rankles a little, the way she acts like he _needs_ a personal connection to Clarke to take care of her. 

At the same time, she's not wrong. He does care more about Clarke than he would about some random other client. She took care of O, when he wasn't around. She's loyal and smart and makes fancy parties much more bearable than they would be without her. He was genuinely upset when she disappeared, and he worried about her, on and off. He's glad she's back.

"I won't let anything happen to her," he tells Raven, and that's apparently enough for her.

"So, you go home too, right?" Clarke asks, once everyone else has cleared out. "You don't have to watch me sleep or anything?"

"I don't _have_ to, but if I don't, how am I gonna satisfy my _rich blonde girls sleeping_ fetish?" he teases, and she smiles a little. He's not sure why it's so important to him, making her smile. It just feels like someone should do it. "But yeah, I go home. Don't die while I'm gone."

She ducks her head. "Okay. If I die, I promise you'll be there."

"That's all I ask. See you tomorrow, Clarke."

*

It's pretty standard for the first few days. Clarke's reappearance is a big deal, and a lot more people want to talk to her than she wants to see. In fact, it seems like she'd rather basically pretend nothing ever happened, which isn't a huge surprise. If Bellamy had disappeared for three years, he probably wouldn't want to talk about it either. But it's not like it's really fair to expect _no one_ to want to know what happened. He's a nobody, and if he was missing and presumed dead, he'd have plenty of people who would want more of an explanation than _I'm not ready to talk about it_.

But Bellamy isn't one of those people for Clarke. He might be curious, but he's an employee right now, and the job is routine. He keeps reporters from getting too close to her, steps back when her friends are the ones trying to talk to her. He follows her to Griffin Industries, where she's starting to work, like she would have if had she'd never left, and hangs out on the couch in the manor with her while she watches TV or works on her laptop.

"Is this the least necessary detail you've ever had?" she asks, four days into the job.

"Nope." Her eyebrows shoot up at the speed of his response, and he grins. "This guy hired me to watch his cat for a week."

"His _cat_? You're making that up."

"Swear to god. He said a cat sitter wasn't safe enough."

"So what did you do?"

"Basically this, but I was just wearing my boxers and didn't leave his apartment. I hear it's what college would have been like, if I went." He shrugs. "Not like hanging out with you is a hardship or anything."

Her mouth twitches, just a little. "Yeah, but--you could be doing real stuff, right?"

"I feel like you don't get that I'm getting paid here. The goal of all my jobs is to get paid. If I was hanging out with you to do your mom a favor, I'd probably be annoyed, but as it is, this is a legitimate job." He pauses. "Or is that what's bothering you?"

"Everything's bothering me right now," she admits, playing with them hem of her pajama pants. "But--I want to get back to normal. And, no offense, but normal doesn't involve you following me around all the time." Her smile is small when she looks up at him, but still genuine. "Just at fancy parties."

"God, I hope I never have to go to another one of your mom's parties."

"Just another reason you should stop being my personal bodyguard," she says. "You'd have to go to even more."

It's a genuinely alarming thought. "Shit, does she have any coming up?"

Clarke actually laughs at that, sharp and surprised, and Bellamy feels himself smiling in response. He can't help it; he doesn't know when _making Clarke happy_ became his most important duty, but he figures it's probably fine. Her mom has to approve of that.

"She wants to have a welcome home party for me," she admits, sobering. "It sounds awful. So you should definitely stop being my bodyguard before then."

She makes it out like a joke, but it's a serious point, and it deserves serious consideration. Clarke is a smart woman, and she's always been capable of taking care of herself. And, of course, she's been _really_ taking care of herself for three years, taking care of herself through things she still hasn't been able to share yet. Things maybe even he can't imagine. Solitude can be crushing.

But she probably misses it too. Sometimes.

"Look, Clarke--this isn't my call. I could quit, obviously, but that's not going to solve your problem. She can just hire someone else. If you want me gone, you need to talk to your mom." Before she can protest, he goes on, "But I'll tell her I agree with you if she asks me. Especially about me hanging out with you after work. It's fun, but--" He grins. "I feel a little guilty getting paid for this, honestly."

Her smile is soft. "Really? You mean it?"

"Hey, if you ever _want_ a bodyguard, I'm your guy. It's a good gig, I like it. But I just--" The words choke in his mouth. They're not _friends_ , and she doesn't want pity. "I want to help, okay? And I believe you that having me around all the time makes it hard to feel like you're--it's not normal. I get it."

"Well, any time you want to watch Netflix for free, that's fine with me."

He snorts. "You're so generous."

"I know." She wets her lips. "But, really--thanks, Bellamy. I--just because I don't want a bodyguard doesn't mean I don't appreciate you. It's been nice having someone to have my back. Even if I don't need it."

She does, but he understands what she means. She's not in any danger. She doesn't need a _bodyguard_.

"I'm going to take you up on that Netflix thing," is all he says, and he's rewarded with another smile.

*

And then, fucking _three days_ after he stops being Clarke Griffin's bodyguard, she gets attacked.

It's her and Wells, outside a club, and they get jumped by some--well, Bellamy doesn't know, exactly. A group of guys. And he has no idea which of them was even being targeted; they're both rich, privileged kids whose lives could be used as bargaining chips. It could have happened for a thousand reasons, but it happened to Clarke, and her mother is freaking out.

"I guess you missed me," he remarks, sitting down next to Clarke in the hospital. Wells has a concussion, and she's waiting for him, of course, even though she's been cleared to go home.

Clarke's eyes flick to him, and she snorts. "She already called you?"

"She didn't want me to leave in the first place. I'll turn it down if you want, but she'll just find someone else. And I'm the coolest bodyguard in the city. Except Miller. You want Miller instead?"

"I'll let you know." She huffs. "You weren't doing anything important?"

"It's two-forty in the morning," he says, mild. "I was sleeping."

"Sorry."

"I'm still getting paid." He wets his lips, lets himself look her up and down. She has a few stitches on her temple, but she doesn't look shaken. If anything, she's hardened. She looks shut-off in a way that he hasn't seen before. "What happened?"

"Gang violence," Clarke says, flat.

"You piss off any gangs recently?"

"I don't think it was personal. Wrong place, wrong time." She groans and leans back in her chair. "My mom's not going to let this go, is she?"

"I'm not an expert. But--no." He pauses. "When's your welcome back party?"

That gets a smile out of her. "A week from Friday. Better get your tux cleaned."

"She better pay me _a lot_." He yawns and slouches in his seat. "So, what happened to the gang?"

"Masked vigilante."

He slants a look at her, but there's no trace of humor on her face. "Masked vigilante," he repeats, dubious.

"Some girl in a hood. She was cute."

"Did you get her number?"

"I was mostly unconscious."

"I guess you lost all your game on the island, huh?" 

She tenses, and he thinks maybe he's gone too far, but then she snorts. "You're such a fucking dick."

"You should try to get some sleep."

"You should try to not be a dick," she says, but she does end up falling asleep on his shoulder until Wells comes out. It's--nice.

He does feel better. Being around for her. 

Just in case.

*

Bellamy doesn't expect his second try at being Clarke's bodyguard to be much different from his first. After all, Clarke is still doing the same things she was doing before: going to work, hanging out with Wells and Raven at their night club, watching Netflix. After a couple days, she convinces her mother that there's no need for him to hang out while she's just sitting on the couch, doing nothing, so he's not getting paid to hang out with her, but he still goes over twice in the first week. Octavia's there, he tells himself. That's why.

Then, it's her welcome-home party, and she disappears on him.

Clarke's never disappeared on him at a fancy party before; honestly, she was usually the one looking out for him and Octavia in these situations. No one questions his presence at her side, or seems to realize he's there in an official capacity. This is standard for them, or it was, three years ago. And everyone is trying very hard to act like the last three years didn't happen.

Which means it's easy for her to slip away. After all, he has no pressing reason to be with her. And he's not expecting it at all.

"Fuck," he mutters. "Fuck. Do you see her?"

Octavia does not look even slightly concerned. "It's Clarke. She probably just found someone to hook up with."

It's almost certainly true, especially if she wants to act like everything is normal. But--she should have _told him_.

He runs his hand through his slick hair, hating the way the gel feels. "If her mom sees me without her, she's going to explode. Probably fire me on the spot. Maybe stab me with a fancy fork for good measure."

That does get the reaction he was hoping for. "Shit, yeah. You can disappear, I'll text you when she comes back."

He worries his lip. Leaving isn't really what he wants; if Clarke needs him, he wants her to know where he is.

But she has his cell, and if she's in a position to look for him, she can call him. And if she can't call, there's not much he can do regardless.

"Yeah, do that, I'm going to go look for her."

Abby hired Miller to work general security for the party, so Bellamy checks in with him too. Being the supportive partner he is, Miller just grins and rolls his eyes.

"Can't even watch a rich girl for an hour?"

"She's not just any rich girl," he says, and goes to check Clarke's bedroom. The door is locked, but he doesn't hear anything inside.

Then again, it's a big room, and he has no idea how loud Clarke is when she's--well, just because he can't hear anything doesn't mean she's not in there.

He has nowhere better to look, so he sits on the floor, pulls out his phone, and settles in to wait.

He must nod off, because Clarke wakes him up a couple hours later.

"This is kind of creepy, honestly," she says. Her dress and hair are impeccable, which is impressive. It's always immediately obvious when Bellamy gets dressed again after a quickie. "Sleeping outside my door."

"You should get a bodyguard to keep people from doing that." He stands and gives her a genuine scowl. "You can't do this, Clarke."

Her surprise seems genuine too. "Do what?"

"Disappear on me. This is my _job_ , I keep telling you. If your mom caught me down there with no idea where you were--"

"Oh," she breathes. 

"Yeah. I don't care if you hook up, I've never cared. But I'm here in an official capacity, and if you ditch me--"

"I didn't mean it like that," she says. "I just--met a girl, yeah."

"Just tell me next time. We can high five, and I'll hang out by your door like a fucking voyeur. It'll be great."

"How often have you done that?"

"I try not to count. Makes me feel gross."

"Yeah, okay." Her smile is sheepish. "I'm sorry, Bellamy."

"Just don't do it again, seriously. I nearly had a heart attack."

"Probably not." She bumps her shoulder against his. "When we walk back in together, everyone's going to think _we_ hooked up."

"It's gonna be hard to convince anyone I'd slum it with you, but I'll try to make it look real."

He honestly expects that will be the end of Clarke disappearing on him, which is maybe naive. But Clarke _likes him_ , he knows she does. And she doesn't want him to lose his job.

Still, there are a lot of times when he doesn't know where she is.

"You're not on duty," Miller points out, reasonably. "You're not supposed to know where she is. You're a bodyguard, not a stalker."

"Fuck you," he says. It definitely means _I know_ , and Miller knows it too. "I was going to go hang out, and she's not home. If she's not home, I'm supposed to be with her."

"She probably went to the store."

"I know. Fuck, I know. I'd hate having a bodyguard, I can't even blame her. If it wasn't me, she'd probably be _trying_ to get me fired."

Miller regards him for an uncomfortable minute. "Do you need me to take this over?" he asks. "I can do it. When it was just a week or two, I wasn't worried, but--you guys are friends. Maybe you shouldn't be the one doing this. Maybe neither of us should."

"You want us to quit the job? You know how much we're getting paid, right?"

"So let me take over."

Bellamy rubs his face. "She likes me better."

"You say that like it's an advantage."

"At least she feels bad when she ditches me."

"And you feel bad for being there. Seriously, Bellamy," he says, and Bellamy sobers, because Miller never calls him Bellamy. "Can you actually handle this? I'll believe you if you say you can."

"What's there to handle?" he grumbles. "I follow her around all day. She's never in any danger. I haven't seen any sign of the gang again."

"Maybe the vigilante got them."

Bellamy snorts. The vigilante Clarke told him about _has_ been busy. She's far from the only one who's seen the mysterious woman now, and Bellamy doesn't know what to think about the whole thing. The police are looking for her, because she's killing people, and that's the kind of thing police can't just let go. But Bellamy's a soldier, and he knows as well as anyone that this city can't survive how it is. Clarke isn't in any specific danger, but she's rich and powerful, and someday soon, people are going to turn on the rich and powerful. He's not even going to blame them.

A lot of the time, he feels like he's on the wrong side, if he's honest. The people who can afford bodyguards aren't really the people he wants to protect. The people the vigilante has killed are people whom Bellamy kind of wanted dead, deep down. They're rich and corrupt and doing terrible things, and the law would never do anything about them.

Octavia thinks the vigilante is a hero; Bellamy isn't quite there yet, because killing people who deserve it is still killing people, and he's not convinced she has any fucking clue what she's doing. But he wants her to.

"Let's hire the vigilante to watch Clarke," he says, finally. "Kill two birds with one stone. Keep them both busy."

"Two birds with one arrow," says Miller, but he lets it go.

*

Clarke keeps disappearing.

She's at least careful about it. Considerate, even. She never leaves him when Abby is around, or if she does, she tells him first, explaining to her partner for tonight that her mother is paranoid and she needs to check in with her bodyguard. If she leaves home when he's off duty, he knows it's not his _fault_. Abby could never blame him for that. She's supposed to tell him when she goes out, and if she doesn't, it's not on him.

But--he worries.

Miller might be right; this might not be a good position for him.

He's going to talk to her about it. Really, he is. But then they're at a party at Dropship, Wells' nightclub, and he fucking _sees her_ sneaking out. 

So he follows her, as best he can, but she's fucking _good_ at this. She doesn't want to be found. And Bellamy's specialty has never been tracking people.

Besides, she wasn't found for three years. If anyone's good at being alone by now, it's Clarke Griffin.

He's working out his next move, thinking that maybe she just _does_ just need to be alone, trying to remember where he used to go, right after he was discharged, when he needed to get away from everything, like that's where she'd go, when a window breaks twenty stories up and someone flies out of it onto the street.

Honestly, he doesn't really think _Clarke_ is up there. But if bodies are flying out of windows, he's going to investigate.

His survival instincts might need some work.

There's gunfire and shouting when the elevator doors open, the vigilante working her way through a security team with ruthless efficiency. She's not killing them, he notices in a detached way, already back into battle mode. She's taking them out, but they'll all recover, except for the one who went through the window.

He doesn't mean to join the fight, but--this is Diana Sydney's building, and she's definitely a fucking asshole and the vigilante seems to be trying to get everyone out of here alive, even though they're trying to kill her, and it's either helping her or leaving, and he can't just _leave_.

As usual, he doesn't notice right away when he gets shot.

Not that he gets shot a lot, and this one is worse than last time. Last time, he got winged, a hit across his right shoulder than stung, but with the adrenaline of the battle and all his focus on his own targets, he didn't realize until all the fire had died down.

He notices more quickly this time, but that's because it's a worse hit, his gut, and he staggers back, pushes down on the wound, hard, to keep the bleeding in, wonders what his plan is. He has a phone, he could call an ambulance, but if he calls attention to himself, he might just get shot again.

He gets the phone out, works on texting Miller-- _plz call 911, send to_ \--but he doesn't finish before the fight ends. He realizes it in the abrupt silence, just his own ragged breathing, his own dim awareness of pain and blood loss and controlled panic. 

When he looks up, on the vigilante is the only one standing, and she turns to him, panic in her eyes.

"Fuck, _Bellamy_ ," she says, and then she's at his side, moving his hand to look at the gunshot wound.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he says. "I knew you were having trouble, but I didn't know it was _this bad_."

And then he passes out.

When he wakes up, the first thing he sees is Clarke's hair, bright and golden, no longer covered by the hood. She's leaning over, stitching up the wound in his abdomen with practiced skill.

"So," he says, or tries, but his voice barely works. He swallows and does better the second time. "So, you're fucked up."

Clarke startles and looks up. She's wearing heavy, dark eye shadow, not an actual mask, and her eyes are harder than he's seen. "You're awake," she says. "I was going to finish first."

"And then leave?"

"I was still deciding. Don't move. This is going to hurt."

"I've gotten stitches before."

Her mouth twists, and then she leans back, resuming her work without comment.

Bellamy takes the opportunity to look around as best he can, given he can't really move much. He's not sure exactly where they are, but it's definitely and without question a _lair_.

Clarke is the vigilante, and she has a lair.

"Is this why you came back?" he asks. "So you could do this?"

She jerks, looking up at him with wild eyes. "I came back because I got rescued. I would have come--I always wanted to come home, Bellamy."

He pauses again, closing his eyes against the pain of his injury. He has no idea what to tell her; he still doesn't know what _happened_.

Her hair brushes his stomach as she pulls back, almost ticklish, and he opens his eyes again. She's getting clean bandages from a stash, and she's moving so awkwardly, like she's waiting for him to start a fight.

"No wonder you don't like talking about it," he finally says.

Her laugh is humorless, and it makes his gut twist. Apparently being a murder vigilante isn't enough to make him stop worrying about Clarke Griffin. That's good to know. "You don't know the half of it."

"Obviously not." He tries to get up onto his elbows, whole body aching, and Clarke pushes him back down.

"Give it a minute."

"Your sketchy hospital bed is fucking cold."

"Suck it up." She puts the bandage on his injury and looks at him through her lashes. "You followed me?" she asks.

"I tried. You lost me, honestly. And then you threw a guy out a window."

She winces. "It was an accident. I didn't think the glass would break so easily."

He pushes himself up again, and Clarke's at his side, helping, hands gentle, but shaking a little. "You seem pretty focused on just killing asshole CEOs," he says, to test her reaction. Her fingers tighten on his back, and he pushes his shoulder against hers. "I keep trying to get you to talk to me, you know. I don't know what you went through, but I've seen some shit. I've done some shit."

She looks hunted. "I don't want to talk about it, Bellamy."

"Okay." He pauses, but he he can't help adding, "But you brought me here. You could have just left me at a hospital."

She looks down at her hands. "I wouldn't have known you were okay."

Miller would never have gotten into this situation. Miller wouldn't have run into a fucking gunfight. Miller wouldn't be worrying more about Clarke Griffin's mental state than her body count, her vigilantism, her whole fucking _life_.

Miller would be smart about this.

"So," says Bellamy. "What am I doing now?"

Her expression is so guarded he thinks his heart might break. "I don't know."

He nods. "I'd offer to help, but you have to answer some questions first. We don't have to talk about the island," he adds, when he feels her tense. "But I need to know what you're doing. And why."

"I'm killing people," she says, looking down.

"People you think deserve it," he says, carefully. It's strange, how much he trusts Clarke. If she's doing this, he's sure she's doing it for a good reason. He can't help believing that. "How do you decide?"

She wets her lips, and when she meets his eyes again, she's softened a little. "I have a list. From my father."

It's about the last thing he expected.

"I was looking for it. It was on the boat when I--" She nods. "It's why he died, Bellamy, and why that boat got lost. He found out things he shouldn't have known, and they killed him. This is the list of people who did it. Who benefited." There's a long pause, and he nearly speaks, but he hasn't figured out what to say yet. "My mother is on it. So is Wells' father."

"Jesus." He rubs his face. "You're sure it's--how did you know? About the list."

"My dad told me he was investigating some inconsistencies he found. Weird stuff in the company's bank account. Before he died. He told me it would be dangerous if I knew the details, but--yeah. It's his handwriting. And there was a note for me with it. It's not--they're so fucking _careful_ , Bellamy. They did so much bad shit and they could get out of it, in court. And even if they didn't, they've got--I know what money can do. Injustice is cheap."

He considers her. "You've been back for less than a month. How did you figure all this out?"

"There's a reason I didn't start--" She swallows hard. "I didn't start this right away. I've been researching, finding out it's real, making sure they're really--the law couldn't do _anything_. Or they couldn't do enough. And they--" Her fists clench in her lap. "I won't target anyone unless I'm sure. I swear. I wasn't just waiting because you were following me around."

"It's _still_ my job."

Her laugh is soft, but sounds real. "I wished it wasn't you. Guarding me. Not--I like you. It would have been easier if I didn't. I didn't want to make your life difficult. But--I have to do this, Bellamy. It's all that got me through, on the island. And they deserve it, they do, I promise there's nothing--"

He lets himself put his arm around her. She's _young_ , and she's traumatized, and he doesn't know how to help her. But this is _Clarke_. "Will you show me?" he asks. "What you're doing."

The breath she lets out is ragged. "Yeah," she says. "I can show you."

*

It's probably bad that Bellamy's life improves so much with the addition of vigilante justice.

Part of it is feeling like he's doing something, something _real_ , something more than just babysitting rich people. But he knows most of it is Clarke, because of course she's still a part of his life, but now they're on the same side, a _team_ , and it's nice to see her relaxing more and more, getting more comfortable, letting herself believe he's really got her back. She's been alone for a long time--longer than three years, he thinks, alone since her father died--and as much as she clearly loves Raven and Wells, she doesn't really know how to talk to them. Even without the vigilante thing, Raven wants to know more than Clarke wants to tell, and he doesn't blame either of them, but--well, it's not making Clarke more inclined to talk to her.

So Bellamy starts telling her stories, his own stories. Some of them are boring, because that's what he remembers most from being at war. So much of it was just _dull_ , and somehow terrible too, somehow worse for how mundane it was, and he thinks she'll understand that. She must have been bored so often, because there's nothing to _do_ for so much of the time.

Sometimes, he tells her stories about the bad parts, the things he has nightmares about. The things he did because he had to do them, that he tells himself aren't really _him_.

"But everything you do is a part of you," she says, soft.

"Yeah," he agrees. "I know." 

There's a long pause while she regards him. "You know I have to do this, don't you." It's not even a question.

"Yeah."

"What does it say about me, that this is what I need?"

It's a question he's been thinking about a lot. Not because he thinks it says bad things, but because he thinks it should say worse things about both of them. He thinks he should probably be less okay with this, that he should be more concerned that Clarke's more interested in murder than therapy.

"I've seen the level of research you put into this," he says. "You're doing this--right."

She snorts. " _Right_."

He nudges his foot against hers. "I'm serious. What if you found out one of these people could just be tried? By law. If we could get them arrested and they'd just serve for their crimes. If their crimes were the kind of thing the law was equipped to deal with and appropriately punish. What would you do?"

"I don't know how to get people arrested. I know how to kill them."

"I bet we could figure it out," he says.

"Probably." She nods, like this is a serious decision, like she's going to make a proclamation. "I don't want them dead. It's just--what I can do. If there was another way, then, yeah. I'd find it."

" _We'd_ find it," he corrects, and it still makes her wince, just a little, the reminder that he's in this with her, for the long haul. 

Maybe penance is harder, when you're bringing someone else down with you. But Bellamy doesn't think of it like that. He spent a long time committing violence because he was ordered to, because someone else told him it was right, and Clarke's process of deciding who's a deserving target has a lot more transparency than the US military's did.

And she needs someone to make sure it stays that way.

"Yeah," she says, soft. "We would."

*

Two weeks later, Clarke finds someone she needs to actually prosecute.

"He's done some shitty stuff," she says, looking over the file on Kyle Wick. "But most of it's pretty obviously illegal, and I think if we could just get the files out, the regular criminal justice system would deal with it. He's not that rich, and they'd let him take the fall."

Bellamy leans over her shoulder. "So, on a scale from one to ten, how much do you want to kill him?"

She rolls her eyes. "I just said we should turn him in."

"Just checking."

Clarke leans her head back against his chest, this brief, warm contact that makes his heart speed up. He's been trying to objectively assess what Clarke's doing, and also trying to objectively assess how much his definitely increasingly non-platonic feelings for her affect his ability to assess things. And how bad his feelings for her are, given her current mental state.

They could use a bigger team, he thinks. More opinions.

"I don't _want_ to murder anyone," she says. "I just don't have a lot of other good options."

"I know." He wets his lips. "So, got any ideas for taking this guy down?"

"I'm actually really shitty at the law," she admits.

Miller has been quietly concerned about Bellamy ever since the Clarke job started, which makes him--probably--a fairly good unbiased outsider. Especially because he's the kind of unbiased outsider who will probably listen to them instead of immediately calling the cops. Miller trusts Bellamy, Bellamy trusts Clarke. So Miller should be able to trust Clarke. Once they've talked him through it.

"Miller's dad is a cop," he offers.

"So?"

"So, Miller's pretty good at the law."

Clarke jerks back to stare at him. "Does he--"

"He doesn't know," he assures her. "But I think we should tell him."

"Bellamy--"

"Why did you trust me?" he asks.

"You got shot, I didn't have much choice." He just keeps looking at her, and she deflates. "I've always trusted you," she says. "I don't know. You're easy to trust."

He has to swallow before he can reply. "Well, I trust Miller."

"With _this_?"

"Miller gets it," he says. "Like I do. We both did shit in the war, Clarke. And he has all the same frustrations you do about the law, from watching his dad. He thinks the vigilante is doing good," he adds, which is true. They don't talk about it a lot, but it helps him. Octavia and Miller like the vigilante. And they aren't biased like he is. "He could help us with that side of it," Bellamy promises her. "If you trust me."

A smile plays on her lips. "I already said I did." There's a pause, and then she says, "I had an idea too."

"Yeah?"

"There's this guy in IT at Griffin, Monty Green. He's been doing research on some of this stuff for me. Not the really bad stuff. Just computer records, bank accounts, that kind of thing. But I think he'd help. I suck with technology, you do too. He could help get information where we need it, without anyone being able to tell where it came from. I think he'd--I think he knows more about what's happening than he lets on. And if he hasn't figured out I'm the vigilante, he will soon. So we should tell him before he guesses."

"That's twice as many people who'd know about you."

"It was twice as many when I told you, too," she says, and it makes him smile, for some reason.

"Okay. Miller and Monty Green." He gives her a grin. "Go team, right?"

Clarke laughs, relieved, and Bellamy's heart flips over. "Let's wait until they say yes to call it a team, okay?"

"We're the team," he says.

She ducks her head on a smile. "Don't be a sap, Bellamy."

*

It turns out Clarke is half-right about Monty Green; it was only a matter of time before he figured out who she was, but the time had already come and gone.

"I kept researching people and they kept dying," Monty says, mild, looking between Clarke, Bellamy, and Miller, with more of a focus on Bellamy and Miller. "It wasn't hard to put it together. But I didn't know it was a group effort."

"I'm not in the group," Miller says. So far, he's mostly just glared at Bellamy and said, _I knew you were into her, but come on_. Which Clarke didn't hear, at least. "I'm still undecided."

"We're trying to move away from straight-up murder," Bellamy says, leaning against the same table Clarke used to patch him up, that first day. He likes this table. It feels like his. "That's why we need you guys. We're better at the vigilante side than the justice side."

"Why arrows?" Monty asks.

Clarke shrugs. "I like arrows."

"Where do you learn that?"

"The first rule of vigilante club is, _don't talk about the island_ ," Bellamy cuts in. "And don't ask questions where you think the answer is probably _the island_."

"I think the first rule of vigilante club is probably still _don't talk about vigilante club_ ," Clarke says, but she's smiling now, the tension leaving her shoulders. "But, yeah. I've got the skill set I've got."

"I could get this stuff out," Monty says, leaning in to examine Clarke's report. He glances at her. "You know, I bet we could get a lot of them put away for life. We probably don't have to kill that many people."

"That's Bellamy," Miller says, clapping his shoulder. "Always jumping right to murder."

"Shut up, Miller," he says, but he catches Clarke smiling a little, and he can't be mad.

A team. This is what they need.

Miller takes him aside while Clarke and Monty confer. "Is she okay?" he asks, and it's probably the most pertinent question. If she's a liability, they're all fucked. "She could afford a shrink, you know."

"I know." He looks at Clarke, thinking her over. "She still hasn't told me what happened to her," he admits. "It was bad. I thought she was just alone for three years, but--that's not it. Something worse happened." It's strange, having the conversation he's been having with himself for months with another person. "I think she's doing what she can to make the world a better place. And it's fucked up, that this is what she decided on, but--I think she is. Doing good."

Miller nods. "You sleeping with her yet?"

"Shut up."

"Just testing your bias."

He considers that. "Am I more biased if I've already slept with her, or less?"

"I think less. Then I know you're not doing this _just_ to get laid."

"Haven't slept with her."

Miller lets out a long sigh. "I don't like this."

"I know. But you're in?"

He looks back at Clarke and Monty. "Yeah. I'm in."

*

And suddenly, Bellamy feels weirdly good about his life. He's working as a fucking _crime fighter_ , bringing down rich assholes who are convinced they're untouchable, and they don't have a body count anymore. Which he thinks is probably good. More for Clarke than the people she's not killing; those people are fucking dicks.

But Clarke is doing better. She's still bringing the people from her list to justice, and she's still working as a vigilante, patrolling the streets and stopping robberies, muggings, and shooting arrows at dudes who are catcalling women. She's talking to her friends more, going out sometimes. Not hooking up like she used to, but--he can't really bring himself to be upset about that. Especially since it was already mostly a cover for her research.

Still, she's doing enough better that when she calls him on a Wednesday night, he's actually worried. They don't usually do anything on Wednesdays; it's one of her nights off. She should be relaxing.

"Hey, everything okay?" he asks, trying and failing to play it cool.

"Hey, yeah, everything's fine. What are you doing?"

He looks down at himself; he's wearing pajamas, he's got his contacts out, and he's making himself his mom's chicken soup for dinner because it's cold out and he's tired.

"Making dinner. Why? Are you going out? Do you need me?"

She laughs, soft. "Do you know how long it's been since we sat on the couch and watched Netflix?"

It takes him a minute, because--they haven't just hung out as friends since the vigilante thing started. He's seen a lot of her, they spend most of their time together, but it's been business. They don't just get to relax.

"Way too long?" he says, smiling. "I have to eat, and I'd need to get dressed, but I could be over there in, like--an hour or so?"

There's a pause, and then she asks, "Could I come to your place?"

Bellamy's apartment is small and kind of cluttered and kind of--well, Clarke grew up in a fucking mansion. But there's absolutely no way she cares, and he's definitely not going to say no. "If you come over soon, I'll even feed you," he says. "You have the address?"

"Yeah. I'll be there in twenty minutes?"

"Don't get killed leaving the house."

She laughs. "Shut up, Bellamy."

He's changed into jeans and a real t-shirt by the time she gets there, but he leaves his glasses on, which he has to kind of regret when she raises her eyebrows at him.

"I already threw away my contacts," he grumbles.

"You look nice," she says. "I didn't know you had glasses. They're nice." She probably notices his blush, because she grins and pats his chest. "Thanks for letting me invite myself over."

"Yeah, obviously I had big plans." He gestures for her to come in, has to smile when she comes in slowly, like she's savoring it. She looks at his DVDs and posters, runs her fingers over the spines of his books, smiles when she hits familiar titles. 

It's hard to look away from her, honestly.

"I don't have a Netflix subscription," he says, when he realizes he's staring. "So, uh, you can find a DVD or something? I mostly just use my TV for video games, honestly."

"No wonder you always come to my place."

"No wonder." He wets his lips. "I, uh--I made soup? And I've got bread. Nothing fancy."

"No, it's perfect. Thanks."

"You don't have to keep thanking me. We're friends. We hang out. Or we did. And, uh--I missed it." He gives her half a smile. "I know I see you all the time, but it's nice to see you when neither of us is working on anything."

She lets out a breath--relief, he thinks. "Yeah. That's what I was thinking."

"Come on, you can help me plate up the soup."

"You put soup on _plates_?" she teases, and he rolls his eyes at her.

"Shut up."

It's not until they're on the couch watching _Ten Things I Hate About You_ that she says, "It's been six months."

"Hm?"

"Since I got back."

"Oh. Really? Shit, I wasn't counting."

She laughs, soft. She looks better, he thinks. She doesn't lapse into silence as much, doesn't need to be alone as often. She smiles more, laughs. Whatever happened to her, it didn't destroy her so badly she couldn't figure out how to put herself back together. She might not have picked the healthiest way to do it, but he can't bring himself to be upset.

"I can't believe it either," she admits. "My first few months--" She wets her lips, looks down at her bowl. "The first few months on the island, it was--I didn't know time could move that slowly. It's like you said, so much of it was just--boring. By the time anyone else showed up, I was surprised I still knew how to talk."

"How long was that?"

Her mouth twists. "I don't honestly know. More than two months. Time kind of--"

"Yeah," he says, and puts his arm around her. She curls against him without any hesitation, and his heart speeds up. "All I've wanted to do since you got back is make you feel better," he says, like it's a secret, even though it's obvious.

She hums. "That's a shame. Mostly I've wanted to make out with you." He chokes on his soup, and he catches her smirk. "Just for the record. Not that you aren't making me feel better."

"No, um. That's--" He wipes his mouth and stares at her. "It's, uh. I wanted that too. Both of those. All of it. Everything."

"You just had to say it once," she says, nuzzling his neck, just enough to make him shiver. She's so close; it's his new favorite thing. "I want to tell you about it," she adds, quiet. "The island. Everything about it. Not--not today. But I want to. Soon."

He puts his dishes aside and then hers, tugs her into his lap, wraps his arms around her like he's been wanting to for almost six months. She's warm and real and alive against him, and she's _good_ She's getting better every day. "Cool," he tells her, pressing his lips against her hair. "I want to hear it."

He knows he will. They have time.


End file.
